Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 12 Who Knew A Cardinal

"Sixty-eight acres, one-third wooded. All pastures fenced. Eight horses, including Son of Cardinal. Stables for twenty. Twelve horses now being boarded. Restored seventy-year-old farmhouse with all improvements, worth four hundred thousand. Swimming pool. Guest house. Historic barn on property."

Somewhat awed by this recital, Qwilleran failed to notice Koko's stealthy return to the desk until a typeblock was spirited out of its niche, landing on the telephone book and bouncing to the floor. Mention of the historic barn prompted him to ask, "Is the farm a going business or just a hobby for the owners?"

"Steve says it makes money. They breed horses and train them, and board horses for people, and give riding lessons."

Wild fantasies were racing through Qwilleran's head. "Is it on the market yet? Is it listed with a broker?"

"Not yet. Mr. Amberton wants to try selling it first. Steve says he has a couple of leads."

"I'd like to speak with Amberton."

"He's in Arizona. Steve drove him to the airport yesterday, but he has all the information - Steve, I mean - if you want to talk to him."

"Is he there? Let me speak with him."

"He's... no, he's at the farm, but - uh - he'd be glad to come up and see you. Wednesday is his day off."

"Okay. Wednesday afternoon," Qwilleran said. "Tell him to come equipped with facts and figures."

"Ummm... could I come with him and bring Robbie? I'd like you to meet Robbie."

"All right. Make it about one-thirty." Qwilleran hung up the phone slowly and thoughtfully, telling himself, This is insane! And yet... he had lived in Pickax for four years, and he was becoming restless. As a journalist Down Below he had lived the life of a gypsy, switching newspapers, moving from city to city, seeking challenges, accepting new assignments. His present circumstances required him to live in Moose County for five years or forfeit the Klingenschoen inheritance. He had one more year to go...

"What do you think about this, Koko?" he asked the cat, who was sitting nearby with his ears cocked and his tail flat out on the floor.

"Yow!" said Koko.

Absentmindedly, automatically, Qwilleran picked up the scattered typeblocks. There were now three on the floor. One was the rabbit. One was a skunk. The other was a horse's head.

-11-

Driving south to Lockmaster for Grummy's funeral on Tuesday morning, Qwilleran crossed the county line into horse country with its hilly pastureland, picturesque fences, and well-kept stables. Horses were being exercised. Riders were practicing jumps. A large recreation vehicle was pulling away from a posh farmhouse, drawing a horse trailer. One could adapt to that kind of life, he thought: horse shows, equitation events, steeplechasing, show jumping, carriage driving.

The funeral services were held in an impressive brick church overlooking Inglehart Park on the riverbank, after which Qwilleran drove to the cemetery with the MacDiarmids.

"Grummy was the last Inglehart around here," said Kip. "The others are scattered allover the country. We seem to have a big population turnover - old families moving out, new ones moving in. The equestrian environment attracts them."

"Do you consider Lockmaster a good place to live?" Qwilleran asked.

"Are you thinking of moving down here?" the editor countered. "If so, we've got a place for you at the paper. We'll put your column on page one."

The cemetery was an old one located on a wooded hill, and Grummy was laid to rest in a large family plot dominated by an Inglehart monument befitting a founder of the town. At the instant of interment her Bird Club associates released Bights of doves, and the mourners raised their heads and watched them disappear into the sky.

"I'm sorry I knew her such a short time," Qwilleran said. "She might have converted me to birding. No one else has succeeded."

On the way back to town, Kip pointed out big-name horse farms, the Riding and Hunt Club, kennels of the Lockmaster Hounds, the Foxhunters' Club, and other points of interest related to the local passion. Moira sat quietly alongside him in a pensive mood.

From the backseat Qwilleran asked, "Is a horse farm a good investment?"

"I doubt it. The average one around here is a status symbol or a private obsession, to my way of thinking," Kip said. "Do you like horses? Do you ride?"

"The horse is an animal I admire greatly. They're beautiful beasts, but I've never had any particular desire to sit on one. I might enjoy living among them, though, if I didn't have to do any of the work."

"The Ambertons are selling their farm, and they have good stock and the best of everything in facilities."

"Horse breeding is a high-risk venture, you know," Moira put in quietly.

"What do you know about their stablemaster?"

"Steve? He hasn't been here long," Kip replied, "but people say he's an excellent trainer. You saw how Son of Cardinal came through on Saturday. From what I hear, he knows the business inside out."

"Where did he come from?"

"Various places-New York State, Kentucky, Tennessee, I believe."